


Second Chances

by Morgana



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-01
Updated: 2010-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-05 17:27:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/44172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgana/pseuds/Morgana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone deserves a second chance</p>
            </blockquote>





	Second Chances

He got the news on a Thursday. There was no time to go to the funeral, not that he would've been welcome, anyway. It had been twenty-five years since he'd seen her, years that she'd spent in another man's arms, bearing another man's children and loving another man. She'd finally gotten that normal life that he'd wanted for her, and from what he'd heard, it had been a happy one. He doubted she'd ever told her husband and children about the years she spent fighting evil and saving the world, let alone about the two vampires that had loved her enough to walk into hell for her, and he really couldn't blame her for it - why speak of the past when it would just bring pain and questions? Better to forget it and move forward, just as she'd said when she called to tell him about her marriage.

_He'd had to sit down. “Wait. I don't - did you say you were getting married?”_

_“Yeah.” She sighed and he heard a weariness there that he'd only heard from her once before. “His name is Ryan, and before you ask, he's human and he doesn't know anything about you or slaying or -”_

_His hand tightened on the received until he heard the faint crack of plastic. Forcing himself to loosen his grip, he asked, “So when are you going to tell him?”_

_“Never. He'd just worry about me, and I don't want him to -” She drew a shuddering breath, then said quietly, “I'm retiring, anyway, so it's not important.”_

_“Retiring?” It didn't sound possible that the greatest warrior he'd ever known was quitting to become a housewife, even though he knew this was what he'd wanted for her, back in the days when he'd still believed that the battle could be won and evil vanquished, instead of just stalled for a while. They'd all had hope then, back before resurrected sires and friends' betrayals and murderous children had shown them exactly what kind of fool's paradise they'd been living in._

_“There are more than enough Slayers around to fight the battles, now. I just - I want a break, you know? I've been at this for almost half my life now, and I'm ready to hand the whole general thing over to somebody else.” She paused for a moment, as though waiting for him to protest, and when he didn't, she said wryly, “Guess you were right about the whole sunshine thing, after all.”_

_He swallowed hard, wondering if he should finally tell her the secret that he'd kept hidden from her for almost five years, but then she murmured, “I really do love him, Angel,” and he'd found himself swallowing the words again and offering his congratulations and wishes for happiness instead._

_“Thanks - that means a lot. Listen, Faith's going to be taking charge, so if you need something or have info for us, call her, okay?”_

_He'd taken down the number she gave him, wished her well again, then hung up the phone and gone out into the night to kill whatever he could find. Later, long after he knew the vows had been said, he took his childe up to the penthouse, and told him about her marriage over two bottles of his best whiskey. He hadn't known what kind of reaction to expect, but the quiet comment, “Always knew she deserved better than either of us,” came as a surprise. Not as much of a surprise as Spike's hands sliding into his hair to draw him down into a heated kiss just a few hours later after they'd finished off the last of the whiskey, though._

Spike spent the night in his bed, and almost every night after that for the next ten years. Angel never knew why it had started, whether it had been a form of comfort or just the need to feel someone close, but in the end, it didn't matter. He had his childe back, in all his sensual, stubborn, infuriating, tender, loving glory, and he'd come as close to true happiness for both soul and demon as he was ever likely to get. After three years, he'd finally gotten up the nerve to tell Spike he loved him, and the blond had laughed and called him a git, saying he'd known ever since they kissed that first night. Any injured feelings had been tended to when Spike spent the rest of the day making love to him, pouring his own heart out with every caress.

Everything had changed between them after that. They were mates in the very truest sense of the word, as close as two beings could be without acutally being a physical part of each other. Spike was his friend and confidante, the person he turned to when his bloody past came surging up to overwhelm him, the one who knew he hated burnt toast and loved chocolate ice cream, the lover who slept in his arms, wore his clothes, laughed at his conceit, and provoked him at every waking opportunity. He was the other half of himself, and Angel didn't know how he'd really lived before he came.

Or how he could say he'd done anything but exist without him.

_Illyria found him on the roof, waiting for the sun to rise. She didn't need to tell him what had happened - he hoped she wouldn't, actually. He'd felt it the moment Spike was no longer there, and hearing the details would just make it worse. For once, the ex-god seemed to understand, because she said simply, “You must seek shelter. The sun will be up soon.”_

_“I know,” he told her. “And I'm not going anywhere.”_

_She cocked her head to one side. “You would destroy yourself simply because Spike no longer exists?”_

_He shrugged, unable to give voice to the sudden churning wash of grief that threatened to cripple him. She stared at him for a moment, then frowned. “You will come indoors now,” she stated, wrapping her hand around his arm. “You may mourn for him there if you so desire.”_

_IF he desired? God, how was he ever supposed to do anything else? Angel jerked free of her grasp when she started to pull him away. “I'm not going,” he repeated._

_“I tire of these hysterics, vampire. This does not become a warrior of your stature, this... coward's death.”_

_“Do you think I care what kind of death I get?” he asked her incredulously. What did it matter? His boy was gone! His bright, beautiful boy, who'd shown him what love really was - dust!_

_“It matters not what I think,” she replied evenly. “You and your ilk are of such stuff as vermin are made of. But Spike... and Wesley, before him... they met death on their feet, with their heads high, like warriors.”_

_“Like champions,” Angel muttered. He thought about Spike and the way he'd burned in the bottom of a pit to save the world, and Wesley, who'd taken on a suicide mission to help people who would never know he'd existed. He thought of the hundreds of Slayers that risked their life on a nightly basis and the smug satisfaction in Holland Manners' voice when he showed Angel the Home Office._

_And he knew Spike would never forgive him if he didn't get inside. This time, when Illyria's hand closed around his arm, he let her lead him back to his penthouse. When they were finally inside, he looked down at her and she smiled at him, brown eyes warm and gentle, and he could see why Wesley had loved her so desperately. “He's gone,” he said hoarsely, and the words were like thunderbolts, shattering any trace of control he had. “God, he's gone. My boy's gone!”_

_She'd caught him as he fell, and he'd cried his pain out in the arms of an ancient god who wore the face of his dead friend. He spent a week locked in his apartment after she left, and when he emerged, he went back to the business of helping the helpless and saving the world. But there was no joy in it, not anymore._

The years slid past in a slow push towards eternity, and Angel went out every night, fighting the good fight until he thought he'd go mad with the relentless press of time. One by one, friends and allies drifted away, finding families and new occupations, turning away from the dangerous work that waited in the streets to safer pursuits that would allow them to watch their children grow up. Angel patrolled and killed and drank, dividing his time between back alleys and bars, while Illyria sat across the table from him and studied the 'rituals of courtship and mating' that went on around her.

He might have spent the rest of his life locked in the cycle of death and drink if he hadn't come back from patrol one night to find a woman sitting in the lobby of the hotel. It took him a minute to recognize her, but her sweet smile hadn't changed in almost forty years, so he bit back the first instinct to growl at her to get the hell out of his hotel and said instead, “Hello, Willow.”

“Hi, Angel! Before you can ask, the world's not ending or anything. Well, it probably will eventually, but not tonight, so that's not why we're here. I just didn't want you thinking that anything was going on, especially since I know we haven't exactly kept in really good touch and -”

“It's okay,” he assured her, breaking in to allow her a chance to breathe. He'd forgotten about her tendency to babble when she was nervous, and from the way she was twisting her hands together, she was about two steps away from a breakdown. “Did you need a room while you're here?”

“Oh, no. I'm staying at the Hyatt - it's pretty nice, you know.”

He didn't, but he nodded anyway and started into the kitchen. “You mentioned someone else - did Oz come with you?”

The mention of her husband made her smile, but she shook her head. “He had to stay - couldn't leave the music shop. It's, um, our son's birthday, so I brought him with me. He wanted to see LA, and I promised he could when he was old enough.”

Old enough? That sounded odd, seeing as Willow was in her sixties. Surely the boy was grown, wasn't he, or had he been one of those late in life babies? He knew that happened - his sister Kathy had been one. “How old is he, now?” He wracked his brain, trying to remember, but couldn't seem to recall even hearing that Willow and Oz had had children at all. That was strange... usually he got calls or emails about things like that...

“He's 27,” she said softly. Angel wondered why she'd have kept her son tied to her until such an age, when he turned around and forgot everything but the man who'd just walked into the hotel. “Angel... this is my son - William.”


End file.
